


Times

by MatchaChocolate



Category: Reservoir Dogs (1992)
Genre: Canon deaths, M/M, Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-04
Updated: 2020-05-04
Packaged: 2021-03-02 20:13:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,237
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24002632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MatchaChocolate/pseuds/MatchaChocolate
Relationships: Freddy Newandyke/Larry Dimmick, Freddy/Larry, Mr. Orange/Mr. White (Reservoir Dogs)
Comments: 5
Kudos: 69





	Times

The first time was an accident, you were in his car going over the job with him, and then talking about nothing and everything, making you feel genuinely relaxed for the first time since you started this job. You had lunch at a diner, he paid, and then when he'd indicated you to follow him into an empty alleyway and you stupidly forgot all your training and followed, he cupped your cheek and when you didn't pull away, he kissed you gently. And you kissed back and then suddenly you were against the wall, his hand cradling the back of your head so it wouldn't smash against the brick, kisses deep and heavy. He pulled off you but kept his hand on your lower back, lead you back to his car, the backseat, tinted windows, and it was cramped and awkward but he kept kissing you, then running his hands through your hair as you unzipped his pants and got his cock in your mouth. It was fast, it had to be, the silent acknowledgement between you that you both knew this game, knew the desperation. You weren't expecting him to reciprocate but he did, guided you onto your back and sucked you off, did it so well you knew he wasn't new to this. Didn't think you'd be able to look him in the eye once he finished, he wiped his mouth with a fast food napkin, but then you both broke into laughter and he tugged you onto him, kissed your neck and every worry that had been creeping into your mind about what you just did left.

The second time he took you back to his apartment, had you on his lap on his couch. You should've been looking around, mentally categorising everything, but couldn't concentrate on anything but him. You knew you weren't going to put any of this in your reports anyway, no matter how sanitised you could make it. You jack each other off while making out, and he's calling you pet names, sweet boy, baby boy, and it's more of a turn on than you ever thought possible. You stayed until sunset, watching dumb tv with his arm around you, nursing a beer, and both of you looked disappointed when you made up an excuse to leave.

The third time wasn't really a time, but it felt like one, you'd both come into his apartment exhausted, stuck in traffic for over an hour after a meeting about the heist had run late. You kicked your shoes off but collapsed into his bed fully clothed, him pulling you close and tucking you under his chin, a few small kisses while he muttered about showering in the morning, and then you were both deep asleep.

The fourth time you're on his couch making out like teenagers, he's laying down and you're sprawled above him, and you ask him to fuck you. He grins and pushes your hair back, when you get to the bed he takes his time preparing you, soft words "gonna treat you so good sweet boy, make this so good for you", and soft kisses on your stomach and thighs, and soft touches as you feel his fingers enter you. He fucks you missionary, leaning over you and holding your head in his palm and you have to look away a few times because the look he's giving you is too loving, too intense. You told him you'd done this before but you're pretty sure he knew you were lying, and afterwards with your arse feeling messy and raw, and your mind the same way, he held you close, lit a fag for you and held it while your fingers were shaking, and you knew no one would ever treat this you good again.

The fifth time you moaned into his mouth to fuck you rough, from behind. He obliged, thrusting deep into you while you lay on your stomach on his bed, his hands on your shoulders. He leaned on top of you and kissed along your back, your whines and moans encouraging him. He bit your shoulder then lapped at it, and you came soon after. When he slipped out he held you gently, like you were something precious, something valuable, the tenderness a contrast to the aggression minutes ago. He cleaned you up with a washcloth, the rubbing motion soothing you. A slight pause when he reached the mark on your shoulder, a couple puncture marks and bruise beginning to form "I didn't hurt you, did I?". You shot him a cheeky grin "I fucking loved it man". He kissed you, his arm tightly around your back and your faces together, he whispers "what did I ever do to deserve you kiddo?" and its blissful for half a minute until reality kicks its way into your head and you feel less like a precious jewel and more like a horrible omen.

The sixth time was warm and sticky sweet, the morning after, you'd woken up in his bed, him shaking you awake "c'mon buddy boy, get up, I let you sleep in but you're gonna sleep the day away, c'mon, I made you breakfast". He'd made pancakes, slightly undercooked and not enough syrup but the gesture made your chest feel weird, like your heart was trying to jump up your throat. You wolfed down yours, and once he'd finished his last bite you knelt between his legs and started pulling his pants down, he laughed "if this is your way of saying thanks...", but this was your way of saying a lot of things to him.

The seventh time was at your place, you never really had guests over, had done a quick clean up job of any incriminating evidence, whether it be police related or bowls of half eaten food from god knows when, but still felt shame at how childish your apartment looked. If he had any thoughts about it he didn't voice them, nor about you giving him coffee in a chipped spider-man mug. You'd at least remembered to wash the bedsheets, and this time you rode him, his hands on your hips holding you steady. He also didn't comment if he noticed the several times sweat dripped from your forehead onto his chest, was too busy lashing praise onto you, sweet names, you're fucking gorgeous, handsome, goddamm you're fucking wonderful. You wiped your combined ejaculates off his stomach with an old shirt before he pulls you into his arms, the after sex routine you've gotten used to, that you adore, him holding you tightly. He asks you what your plans are after the heist, and you awkwardly avoid answering. You both know what he was really trying to ask.

The eighth time wasn't really a time again, but he was pulling your body against his like usual and you were both trembling. His hand stroking you on one cheek and the hard metal of his gun on the other, and all you can do is use your last strength to reach and try to comfort him, like he's doing to you. It wasn't really a time, and it wasn't the closest or rawest you'd been with him, but a twisted thought, your last thought, was that this mess you'd made with him was going to end horribly no matter what, and at least it was ending with you both holding each other.


End file.
